Is the Bitch Dead, Or What? (7 page)

A few congregants nodded their head in agreement. And one man blurted, “No, pastor!”

“Can we even measure our sins against the next man's sins? I mean, who is to say that being an adulterer is better than being possessed by seven demons? Who is to say that being a thief is worse than being a liar? A sin is a sin. And only the Father in Heaven can judge any man on Earth. And when our Father came to Earth in the form of Jesus, he didn't judge. What did he do? Well, let's look at the Scripture. Turn to Verse Ten of John, Chapter Eight. Jesus told Mary Magdalene that he did not condemn her. He did not judge. He simply told her, ‘Go now and leave your life of sin.'

“Now, I don't know about you, but I didn't come to the church a perfect man. Not even close. But once I left that life in Miami, Florida, I left my life of sin. I totally committed my life to Jesus. So I will not be judged. I will hold my head high because I have nothing to be ashamed of. I sinned. I repented. I was forgiven. Jesus died for all of that. That's the walk of a disciple of Christ.”

A splattering of “Amen”s rose up throughout the church.

“This church my daddy built was a vision that I carried with me when I was called to step into the huge shoes he left for me to fill. I envisioned this as a temple of healing, where people learn the true Word and know the true meaning of being a disciple of God. It is not an easy walk. But if the journey is undertaken, it is completely fulfilling. I don't put a lot of stock in the pomp and circumstance of church. It's like ‘playing church.' Now, don't get me wrong, I love the choir
and Sister Jones, you sure do tear up those solos. It's like we have Patti LaBelle right here in our house. But that's not why we come to church, is it?

“We don't come to church to see who's wearing what or who's not wearing what. It's not to see who's driving what. And when you so-called celebrities show up, I can't give you preferential treatment, because you aren't special in the house of the Lord, you are just a disciple. God is not impressed by your celebrity status. There are no saved seats, because everyone has a seat in God's house. So if you all decide to keep me as your pastor— but it's not really your decision, but God's— I'm going to step it up. It's going to get a little more difficult. Some of us are going to be a little more uncomfortable with things. But that's good. Because that discomfort means there is growth. This church is not just going to increase in the number of people, it's going to grow in its spirit. That's a promise.”

“Well, all right, now!” shouted Sister Jenkins, one of the deaconesses.

Edwin smiled, his first genuine smile of the day. He continued:

“Speaking of growth, I, too, have some areas of growth to work on. I will ask that you pray for me in these areas. I need my family back. I want you all to pray for Sister Patricia, so that she finds it in her heart to forgive me for not telling her about my past. And in that same vein, I want all of you to pray for Ritz Harper.”

With that name, grumbles ripped through the sanctuary.

“What have I been talking about all morning? Don't condemn Ritz Harper! The walk with Christ is not easy. It is all about love. It's about forgiveness, not condemnation. It's about not holding grudges. How lost is that woman, that she has built her career spreading rumors about people, spreading vicious gossip, and destroying lives? How can she look herself in the mirror? How does she sleep at night?

“Yes, she's a millionaire, and many of you may think that she has everything. But the truth is, she has nothing.

“She needs our prayers right now— especially now, as she fights for her life. She needs to live so that she doesn't go to hell. And let me remind you, the primary goal of a follower of Christ is to make sure that people know the truth so that they can avoid Hell. So we are going to pray for Ritz Harper, and we are going to pray that she makes a full and speedy recovery. Then we are going to pray that she finds Christ. Someone in here may be the one to touch her. Someone in here might be the one to bring her into the light.”

Tracee Remington sat in the fourth pew on the far right of the church. She hadn't come for the spectacle. She had come to hear the Word. She needed comfort. She didn't even know if Edwin Lakes would be preaching. Tracee just knew she had to be around believers. She had to stay plugged in. Reading her Bible wasn't enough. There was too much going on, and she had to be grounded. She bowed her head as Pastor Lakes instructed and she prayed as hard as she could for Ritz, her friend who had gained the world but lost her soul.

Ritz fought against that floating feeling. She knew that if she allowed herself to just go with the flow, it would be over. She knew that she would not, could not, return once she surrendered to that peaceful, tempting white light. If she followed her mother and left the place of limbo, she would be “officially dead.” All that would be left of her would be a fancy funeral— which she would be in no condition to appreci-ate— and after the hoopla died down maybe every now and then there would be a few lines about her in David Hinck-ley's “Radio Dial” column in the
Daily News
. And her name wouldn't be in boldface type in that column.

The News did not boldface the names of dead people.

There was a part of her that wanted to give up, a part that wanted to just let go. What did she have waiting for her back there? She didn't have a man. There was a career that was
booming, but it took all her energy to keep it hot, and that career did not make her happy, though she tried to convince herself that it did. She felt so bad for herself.

Ritz tried to process everything her mother had said to her and it added up to one thing: She was a bad person. She had no friends except for Tracee, and Tracee had changed so much. She wondered who Tracee really was now.

Despite the temptations of that bright light, Ritz had a burning desire to come back. She wanted to live. She had things she needed to take care of. At the top of her list was revenge. Ritz wanted to get whoever shot her. She wanted to live so she could get them. They say that living well is the best revenge. No, revenge is the best revenge.

The Sicilians have a saying: “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” Ritz once heard somebody on The Sopranos say that. At the time, she didn't know what those words meant. But now she did.

It would all come later. Let the dish get cold. Right now, she had something else to do.

She reached deep inside herself to that place in her heart that made her special, the place that made her strong, the place that was Ritgina “Ritz” Harper.

Live. Live. Live. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe
.

She felt a tingly sensation that seemed to be a mile down south. Then she realized: Those were her toes. She wiggled them.

Then she felt another tingly sensation— coming from her left and from her right.

They were her arms. She could feel them. Then she felt her hands coming back.

Could she give someone the finger?

She tried, and she could feel the middle finger of her right hand rising.

Yes!

Then she could feel that she was on her back and that all kinds of things were stuck in her body. They hurt. She could hear an air conditioner humming. She could feel a harsh light on her eyelids. She could make out faint voices; she couldn't understand what they were saying, but the voices were getting clearer and clearer. Her left butt cheek itched. She ran her tongue along her teeth. They were still there.

Ritz tried to talk, but there were tubes stuck in her mouth.

“Thank you, Mama. I love you, Mama.” That's what she was trying to say.

“Doctor, come quick! I think Ritz Harper is coming out of her coma!” said the nurse who was on duty.

Paul Grevious was at the nurses' station. He had just checked on his most famous patient and was going to finish his rounds. There was a lot of attention around this case, and Dr. Grevious was taking his time to make sure he didn't make a single mistake. This case could make his career. He was a solid neurosurgeon, but he wanted to be known as the best.

This case had already brought him the first press conference he had ever done. That was the night after Ritz Harper was identified. He didn't have much to report other than that she was in critical condition and in a coma.

There would be many more press conferences if she held on, and lived, and was able to discuss her “progress” with a tabloid press that would pant like a puppy dog after his every word.

And if he played his cards right, Dr. Grevious figured, there might even be a book deal in the mix somewhere. He was going to make sure that Ritz Harper got the best care possible, and he was also going to make sure that everyone knew who provided that care.

When his beeper went off, Dr. Grevious raced to Ritz's room. Lights! Camera! Action!

Ritz's eyes were fluttering. The pace on the heart monitor was quickening. She seemed to be moving her lips. Finally, she opened her eyes.

“Welcome back, stranger,” Dr. Grevious said, smiling. He took out his light and checked her pupils. There was still some swelling around her eyes, so he was very gentle. Ritz tried to talk, but it was painful. It felt like she had swallowed a bunch of chopped glass. The tube they had shoved down her throat to feed her had made her throat raw. Her eyes hurt. Her head was pounding. She couldn't take a deep breath without feeling a stabbing pain. The grimace that was etched across her face told the story.

“Nurse, get Ms. Harper some morphine, stat!” Dr. Grevious
said. He smiled at Ritz. “The worst part is over, Ms. Harper. We're going to focus now on getting you back on your feet.”

Ritz opened her eyes. Her vision was blurry and she felt pain all around the sockets. Her head pounded, as if the entire cast from
Drumline
were practicing in her head:
Rat-a-tat-tat
! Her chest hurt, her knees hurt, her side hurt. She was a bundle of pain.

Tears streaked down the sides of her face, creating another kind of hot pain that started from somewhere inside. The great Ritz Harper, the “Queen of All Media,” was flat on her back and helpless. Ritz prided herself on her independence. Since her mother died, she had lived as if she could rely on no one but herself.

At the tender age of ten, Ritz decided she was going to take care of herself. She appreciated her aunt and uncle for raising her, giving her a home, and loving her, but Ritz never relied on them. She always had odd jobs as a kid. She sold flowers in the neighborhood, flowers she plucked from her aunt's garden. She did chores for a fee. Ritz wasn't afraid of work. And she saved every penny. She was not miserly, but she was afraid— afraid of being alone and helpless. While outsiders didn't understand the method to her madness, Ritz knew exactly what she was doing when she would pay cash for her car and try to pay off her home as quickly as possible. Financial advisors told her that what she was doing was stupid, that you spend other people's money, that loans are your friends. To Ritz, a loan was a dependency on somebody else, and that didn't work for her. If something happened, they
could come and take her car or take her home and she would be left with nothing. She wanted to own her stuff— outright. She didn't want anyone to be able to take anything from her— not even her life. She fought hard every day to live, because she wanted whoever had the audacity to try and take her life to feel her wrath.

To Ritz, life was all about power and control. She wanted the power and she wanted the control. Power and control were her twin babies, and she would give those babies to no one— not for one minute, not for one second.

And now she was laid up in a hospital bed, completely powerless with zero control. She couldn't even take herself to the bathroom. Her most humiliating experience was the day she soiled her sheets and two orderlies had to come in and literally lift her from her bed while the nurse cleaned the bed, changed her sheets, and washed her.

Ritz was screaming inside. She was Ritz Fucking Harper, not some damn invalid who had to have her ass wiped by someone. But at the moment, she was an invalid who had to have her ass wiped for her.

Some of the nurses were surly. Ritz was given the deluxe star treatment, complete with a private room and other amenities that were found more at the Ritz-Carlton than in a hospital. But the staff was still the hospital staff. Ritz had four nurses who worked eight-hour shifts. Two of them were nice, but two acted like they did not want to be there. They treated her like they hated her. One was so rude that, if Ritz had any strength whatsoever, she would have slapped her.

But she could barely move, let alone haul off and slap someone. She was completely at everyone's mercy. Her biggest nightmare was what happened to the Uma Thurman character in
Kill Bill
when she was in a coma and one of the hospital workers charged a fee for men to have their way with her while she was unconscious. Ritz didn't even want to think about what could have happened to her while she was in a coma and totally helpless.

Ritz hadn't processed yet that she was under constant watch and guard. She hadn't even thought about the killer possibly trying again. Her only thought was getting back. She wanted to get back on top as quickly as possible.